Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  Lee arrived from Europe, clutching a teddy bear she’d brought as a baby gift, and was crestfallen when she heard the news. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she soothed, unconvincingly. “Look at Tina. We didn’t think she’d make it, after all those months in intensive care, but now she’s full of life.”

  That evening Jackie couldn’t sleep. She had a feeling of impending doom that nothing could shift, so at 1:00 A.M. the doctor gave her a sedative to help her get some rest.

  When she awoke the following morning, leaden limbed, Dr. Walsh was sitting by the bed, and she knew before he spoke.

  “He didn’t make it, I’m afraid. He fought so hard, but it wasn’t to be.”

  She clutched her throat, feeling as if there weren’t enough air in the room.

  “He died at four this morning. I’m so sorry. Jack is on his way.”

  When Jack came into the room, he was already sobbing. Jackie took his hand and pulled him toward her so that she could reach his face. She wiped his tears with her fingertips, saying, “Shush, now,” as if she were comforting one of the children after a fall. He leaned his head on her shoulder, and she felt the tears soaking her nightdress. He was shaking with grief.

  Jackie felt as if her jaw were locked. She should be crying too. How strange that she wasn’t. She couldn’t react, couldn’t think straight, because none of it seemed real. It was as if it were happening to someone else entirely.

  Chapter 34

  Squaw Island

  August 1963

  Jack and Lee flew to Boston for Patrick’s funeral, but Jackie was too ill to get out of bed. She still felt numb, as if she were under anesthetic and hadn’t quite come around.

  When she was well enough to return to the house on Squaw Island, Jack took a week off to join her. They sat watching John and Caroline play with the puppies, or paddling off the seashore that was just at the end of the garden. Jack had to stay near the house in case he was needed on the hotline, but Jackie didn’t want to leave anyway. She couldn’t bear to bump into anyone who might offer sympathy.

  Around and around the thoughts swirled. Now she had lost two fully formed children—Arabella and Patrick—as well as the little one who never made it past the first trimester. Was it her fault? Was it because of her smoking, as Rose had rather unkindly hinted? Why was she so bad at childbearing compared to the other Kennedy women? Rose had nine, and Ethel had given birth to her eighth just a month earlier. It was as if they were taunting Jackie.

  What would Patrick and Arabella have been like? What kind of lives would they have led? She wished she could believe they would find each other in heaven. That would have been comforting. But how would they even recognize each other?

  Jack had to return to the White House in mid-August but Jackie stayed on as summer trailed to an end. At first she needed a wrap to sit out on the porch in the evening. Then the winds picked up, sandblasting her face when she took solitary walks along the shore. Purply gray clouds gusted in and rain came in short squalls. She couldn’t face winter: the darkness, the days trapped indoors by the weather, the children getting fractious, the dark skeletal trees against a gray sky. It was too much.

  And then Lee phoned one evening. “Why don’t you come to Europe for a cruise on Aristotle’s yacht in October?” she suggested. “It’s still hot and sunny in Greece then. You’ll love it.”

  “Weren’t you just there in May?” Jackie asked, surprised.

  “Yeah.” Lee’s tone was airy. “He’s invited me again, and suggested I ask you. What do you think?”

  It sounded enticing. Bright sunshine and blue skies, swimming in a warm sea . . . she had always enjoyed vacations with Lee, from the time when they spent a summer touring Europe together in 1951. They moved at the same pace, had the same interests. “I’ll have to ask Jack,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “What’s she doing issuing invitations in Onassis’s name?” Jack responded immediately. “I told you they were having an affair.”

  Jackie shook her head, dismissing it, although a doubt had crept into her mind. “I could use a change of scene, Jack. Once I’m there I could assess the situation and report back.”

  Still Jack hesitated over the course of a week, and she knew his advisors were rallying against it. It could put him in a compromising position, raising conflict-of-interest issues. It didn’t look good for Jackie to be vacationing with a man who had been charged with conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government, even though he had been found guilty only of a lesser charge. But on the other hand, he wanted to cheer her up.

  “You haven’t smiled since Patrick died,” he told her. “You barely talk. You sit, still and inscrutable, and I can’t reach you. So if this trip will help you to feel better, then you should go. But we’ll send chaperones along, people who are beyond reproach. And Stas must be there too.”

  “Thank you,” Jackie said, bowing her head. “It means a lot.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “Tell Lee that if she plans to marry Onassis, there is to be no announcement till after the ’64 election and he mustn’t set foot in the U.S. before then. Warn her I won’t be responsible for my actions if she costs me a second term.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Jackie promised. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Chapter 35

  The Mediterranean

  August 1963

  I’m having dinner with Stas in Monte Carlo this evening,” Ari told Maria, “and he’s bringing Lee. Would you like to come?”

  Maria couldn’t imagine how she would cope with seeing Lee face-to-face without clawing her eyes out. “Do you have to go?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so. He’s a director of my airline, and we have matters to discuss.”

  “In that case, I’ll come.” She certainly wasn’t going to let him see Lee without her.

  Maria dressed with care, in a new black-and-white asymmetric evening gown, which she accessorized with diamonds. They arrived early at the Hôtel de Paris and Ari ordered champagne for their table, which was on the top-floor roof terrace, with a view of the Mediterranean. It was a sultry evening, but large fans cooled the wealthy clientele.

  When Lee and Stas arrived, Maria rose to greet them with cheek kisses, but, as soon as Lee sat down, Maria’s eye was caught by the bracelet jangling on her wrist. She was almost positive it was the Cartier bangle from Ari’s drawer. She felt sick. What had that note said? To my dearest, my sweetest love?

  The men were talking about an incident on an Olympic flight that day. Lee sat back and lit a cigarette, regarding Maria’s dress with a critical expression.

  “Who designed your gown?” she asked.

  “Biki of Milan,” Maria replied. “She’s a friend who makes a lot of clothes for me.”

  “Rah–lly,” Lee drawled, with a disparaging sniff.

  Maria couldn’t let her get away with that, so she hit back. “Are you on holiday without your children again? They’re so young, they must scarcely recognize you.”

  She knew from the sharp intake of breath that she had scored a bull’s-eye. The atmosphere between them was barely civil for the rest of the evening.

  “You eat bread, I see,” Lee remarked. “How very brave of you not to worry about your figure.”

  “I’m careful not to drink too much alcohol,” Maria replied. “There’s nothing quite so undignified as a drunk woman.” She looked meaningfully at Lee’s wineglass, which was nearly empty again, minutes after a waiter had topped it up.

  Stas seemed puzzled by all the veiled barbs and hostile glances, but Ari knew what was going on. Maria suspected he was secretly enjoying it.

  As soon as they got back to the Christina, she hurried down to his suite to check the drawer. The Cartier box was still there but empty. He had given the bracelet to Lee. How could he? She slammed the drawer shut. Should she confront him? Admit she’d been snooping? Jealousy was an unattractive, destructive quality. It was better to take the high road. She was the woman he chose to be with, after a
ll.

  She didn’t mention the bracelet but, from then on, insecurity raged whenever Ari made a trip ashore. She tried to sound nonchalant as she asked whom he was dining with and which friends he planned to see. If she could have had him tailed twenty-four hours a day, she would have, but that was no way to conduct a love affair.

  IN MID-SEPTEMBER, ARI announced, “I’ve invited Mrs. Kennedy for a cruise to help her recover after the loss of her baby.”

  Maria had felt sympathetic when she read of the death of the Kennedy baby. She knew all too well what it was like to lose a child straight after its birth, because Omero still haunted her thoughts. But she was instantly wary about the cruise.

  “Who’s coming with her?” she asked, trying to keep her tone from sounding inquisitorial.

  Ari listed the guests: “American congressman Franklin Roosevelt Jr. and his wife; Princess Irene Galitzine and her husband; Stas and Lee; my sister, Artemis, and her husband . . .” He’d slipped Lee’s name into the middle, as if trying to gloss over her presence.

  “And what dates are they coming?”

  “We sail on the fourth of October, from Athens.”

  Maria tapped her fingernail on the tabletop. “I told you I have to be in Paris during the first week of October. I’m meeting Zeffirelli to discuss a production of Tosca.”

  “Of course you are!” he exclaimed, clapping his forehead as if he had only just remembered. Maria was not fooled for a moment. “But perhaps it’s just as well,” he continued. “You haven’t met the First Lady and she will not be in the mood for socializing with strangers. I understand she is a very private person.”

  “She hasn’t met Artemis either, has she? She’s a stranger to her.”

  “Artemis will stay out of her way, as will I. I don’t plan to impose myself on the party. In fact, I offered to let them borrow the Christina and cruise without me, but Mrs. Kennedy insisted I should be there.” He shrugged, as if to say, What else could I do?

  “Perhaps I will join you on the tenth,” Maria persevered. “You could send the helicopter to collect me from Athens.”

  “It’s probably best not to, my love,” he said. “Give Mrs. Kennedy her privacy and I’ll fly to meet you in Paris as soon as they leave.”

  “What about Princess Lee?” she asked, her tone hardening. “What if she strolls into your cabin in her skimpy bikini? Will you be able to resist this time?”

  He pulled her toward him, kissing her with tenderness. “I will resist,” he said, then drew his head back so she could see the flecks of gold in his irises. “I promise I will send her packing.”

  She turned away so he would not see the emotion on her face. She hated Lee now, with her affected, breathy voice and the expensive clothes draped over that bony frame. What was she good for? She didn’t have any talents, except betrayal.

  Chapter 36

  The Mediterranean

  October 1963

  Jackie felt so ill during the eleven-hour flight from New York to Athens that she had to ask a stewardess for an oxygen mask. Her whole body felt broken, every bone and joint aching, and her head fuzzy with exhaustion. Franklin Roosevelt Jr. and his wife, Sue, were worried and offered to call a doctor when they landed, but Jackie refused. She just wanted to get there. A chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce was waiting to collect them at the airport, and they were whisked to Piraeus and straight onto the Onassis yacht, which towered over the others in the port.

  As they boarded, she saw that the railings were decorated with roses and gladioli, and a lavish cocktail party was underway, with a live band and a barman in black tie mixing cocktails in a shaker. Jackie was not in the mood. She made her excuses and slipped down to her cabin, where she climbed into bed and slept for fourteen hours straight. The sheets were finely woven, the mattress sublime, and the wood-paneled walls seemed to hold the warmth of summer.

  On waking the next morning, she pressed a bell set in the wall, and a maid appeared, who took her order for orange juice, tea, and toast. Through a porthole, she could see white sun glinting off the turquoise Aegean Sea, and there was not a cloud in the sky. Jackie felt stiff from sleeping so long, but she could also feel the release of some of the tension she had been holding in her body since Patrick died. The change of scene helped.

  That first day, she lay in the sun, an unopened book by her side, and every now and then she dove off a diving board into the sea, which was as warm as bathwater. They docked in Istanbul that evening, but she did not feel like going ashore and ate dinner alone before an early night.

  The next day they sailed to the island of Lesbos, and Jackie swam far out from the shore, till the Christina was a mere dot on the horizon. There, where no one could see, at last she let her tears for Patrick flow freely; they mingled with the salt water stinging her eyes and became part of the vast ocean. It felt cathartic.

  That evening, all the guests dined on board. An orchestra played on deck after the meal and Lee got up to dance, drifting around the floor on her own: “showing off,” their mother would have called it. Still their host had not made an appearance. It seemed he had his own quarters on the yacht and was giving them their privacy. They were to dock at Smyrna the next day, and Jackie sent Franklin to request that Onassis join them, because she knew this was the place of his birth.

  Their host appeared the following morning and gave them a guided tour of Smyrna, explaining the background of the Turks’ decision to drive out the Greeks in 1922 and the complex enmity between the neighboring nations.

  “You’re a talented raconteur,” Jackie complimented him. “I wish you could be our guide during the rest of the cruise. I’ve always wanted to explore this area and learn about its history and mythology.”

  “It would be my honor,” he said, with a slight bow. “If you’re sure I’m not intruding.”

  He had an old-fashioned charm, she decided, as if he came from a more genteel prewar generation. “I read an article that called you the modern-day Odysseus,” she probed. “Is that true? And, if so, where is the Ithaca you are searching for?”

  Onassis gestured toward his yacht: “The Christina is my Ithaca, the place I call home.”

  “I was hoping Maria Callas might be here,” Jackie continued. “Will she join us later? My husband has already met her and he is not remotely an opera fan, whereas I love it, so it doesn’t seem fair.”

  Onassis seemed uncomfortable with the question. “Unfortunately Maria had to go to Paris on business,” he said, before changing the subject abruptly. “Shall we head back now? Cocktail hour is fast approaching and I seem to remember that you favor a vodka martini, with an olive.”

  “Well remembered, Mr. Onassis.” She smiled.

  “Please—call me Aristotle.”

  “Only if you call me Jacqueline,” she replied.

  THE DAY AFTER their jaunt into Smyrna, Ari called Jackie up to the boat deck, which served as his office. “There’s a call for you,” he said. “From your husband.”

  “Isn’t modern technology extraordinary?” she exclaimed as she took the receiver. Aristotle left the area to give her privacy. An Oval Office secretary was on the line, and she put the call through.

  “Is everything alright?” Jackie asked straightaway.

  “The kids are fine,” he said, the line crackly, with a ghostlike echo. “But some photos of you with Onassis made a big splash in the papers this morning. You even appear to be holding hands in one of them.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t remember that.

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re having a good time but you need to be more discreet. Stay away from photographers.”

  “I’ll try, but it’s not easy. They’re sneaky critters. How are you?”

  “You know,” he said. “Tired. Sad. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, bunny.” Her heart ached for him suddenly. What was she doing so far away? Jack had lost a baby too. She kept forgetting that. “I’ll write every evening. We’ll be back in ten days, no time at all.”


  “I hope this trip helps. I really do. I have to go now, kid.”

  The line cut off when she was in the middle of saying goodbye, and she sat clutching the receiver, aching with missing him.

  “Need a drink?” Aristotle asked, appearing in a doorway.

  She shook her head and forced a smile. “Another swim, I think,” she replied. “But thank you.”

  Chapter 37

  Paris

  October 1963

  The day after Maria arrived in Paris she had lunch at Maxim’s with Ari’s old friend Maggie van Zuylen. There were pictures of Lee and Jackie all over the newspapers and Maggie wasted no time in questioning her about the Christina cruise.

  “Why are you not with them?” she asked, her brown eyes full of concern.

  Maria had trusted Maggie from their first meeting, and she told her the story of Ari’s infidelity with Lee and the way that he had arranged the cruise for a period when he knew she had to be in Paris.

  Maggie leaned back, looking thoughtful. She was an astute, raven-haired beauty who had suffered her share of setbacks in life. She had fallen madly in love with the son of Baron van Zuylen, but his parents refused to countenance the match and disinherited him when he married her against their wishes. For the next three years, it was only Maggie’s exceptional poker skills that kept them from penury. When she finally found a way to meet the old baron, she was able to wrap him around her little finger and have his son reinstated to the succession—and to his inheritance.

  “Ari adores you,” Maggie said now. “He talks of you as if you are a goddess. But perhaps he has become a little too sure of your devotion. He’s been a naughty boy and needs to—what do the English say?—he needs to pull his socks up.”